22
Detective Angela Petersen sneered at Micah through the filthy window of the drug store in Deepwater. He looked a little different since the last time she’d seen him, taller and broader. His perfectly cut platinum hair framed chiseled features that had sharpened into those of a man. Occasionally, his azure eyes would cut sideways at her, accusingly, as if her less-than-perfect intelligence was to blame for Ellyssa’s disappearance.
She hated him. After a month of having no contact with the little creatures, she’d almost forgotten how much she hated them all.
The detective stepped back when Micah squared off to her, letting Angela know he was watching. She would have to be very careful of everything she did, every call she made.
Certainly, Dr. Hirch had sent him to spy on her and report back all her failures. The whole operation the doctor had entrusted to her had turned into nothing more than a fiasco. Captain Jones hadn’t helped matters, either, with his constant distractions.
Micah cast Angela another look before shifting through the pile of rags with the toe of his shoe. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the look was smug.
All The Center’s children felt they were so superior. Their egos towered over that of the doctor. For creatures supposedly lacking emotions, they had no problem showing arrogance.
Anglea lifted her foot. The handgun weighed against her ankle. What she wouldn’t give to shoot the condescending look right off his face, mess up his flawless features. That’d knock him down a peg or two.
Although unlikely, maybe she’d have a chance. If only she could get him alone. The cartridge could never be traced back to her. Renegades would be blamed.
Angela sighed. That’d never happen. And with Micah there, she’d never get a chance to even the score with Ellyssa. He would return home safe, and so would his sister. And she would return a failure.
“What’re you thinking about?”
Angela gave Dyllon a once-over. An anxious energy swirled around the young captain. His cream-colored hair was combed perfectly, except for a small piece that flipped out disobediently behind his ear. He wore civilian clothes, a green T-shirt which brought out his eyes, and faded jeans that formed nicely around his hips and legs.
He was standing too close.
Angela’s gaze darted through the cloudy glass and, sure enough, the boy watched them. Her lip curled as she looked away. The absolute last thing she needed was Micah to report that she was being chummy with the local police. The doctor wouldn’t understand how differently things worked here.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Angela asked.
Dyllon’s perpetual grin faltered a bit. “It’s my day off. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Angela snarled while she stepped away from the window, her strides long and quick.
Dyllon jogged to catch up with her. “Something’s wrong.”
Stopping on the other side of the street, Angela glanced at the drug store to make certain prying eyes were not following them. The doorway was clear, but the glass was too filthy to see through. Although the hairs on her neck didn’t tingle, she couldn’t be sure. She started to walk again, her pace slower.
She paused at the end of the broken walkway. The only way the boy could see them now was if he stepped outside. “Have you found out anything about Davis?” she asked.
Dyllon touched her arm.
“Don’t.”
Small lines furrowed in the middle of his forehead. “What’s wrong? Why are you acting like this?”
“May I remind you, Captain, I am not one of your officers, but your superior?”
Confusion clouded Dyllon’s features while he studied her. He looked over his shoulder, and when he looked back at her, his bewilderment was replaced with a knowing look.
“I get it. No more friendly working together,” he whispered.
Angela nodded.
Dyllon straightened his back and lifted his chin. “Yes, ma’am. I just brought you this,” he said, officially. He shoved a clear plastic bag she hadn’t even noticed into her hand. “The items you requested to be tested.”
The bag contained a fragment of the blood-spotted shelf and the shotgun casing from the store. The analysis on both items had run into a dead-end. The blood was not in the computer system, the wounded individual obviously birthed in secret, and the shell was not from a registered gun.
Angela slid the evidence under her arm. “Thank you.”
He glanced at the empty storefront, then turned toward her. “I understand.”
Working with the captain and his team had been somewhat pleasant. A break from the stress of The Center. That time was over, as Micah’s arrival had reminded her of who she was. “No. No, you don’t.”
“Who is that kid, anyway?”
Angela glanced back toward the store. She couldn’t see him, but knew he was somehow watching her, filing away every move she made to report later.
She’d been made a mockery of. All this time, Angela thought she had known everything about the subjects, priding herself in her ability to observe. She hadn’t known anything, except what the doctor wanted her to. It astounded her and made her question herself, that she had provided security for the doctor’s creations without ever being aware, until the recent events had unfolded. And even with all that had transpired, the doctor still had refused to answer her other inquiries, stating
The confession stuck on the tip of Angela’s tongue. If she did, she would be more worthless than she already felt, and her purpose at the moment was to prove her superiority.
Of course, it was Dr. Hirch, and not her, who had invited the captain to know about Micah. There was no way around it. She scoffed and shook her head.
Dyllon gave her a strange look.
“Come with me. You’re about to find out.” Angela pulled her shoulders back, her demeanor icy. She marched back toward the drug store and walked through the entrance. “Micah,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. After being in the company of Dyllon and the other Missouri citizens, his accent sounded strange to her ears.
“This should interest you.”
Micah took the bag, showing no interest. He emptied the shelf fragment into his hand. He fingered it with his eyes closed. After a moment, his lids opened, but his expression didn’t tell her if he could make a reading. It remained as stoic as before.
“Well?” she hinted.
“Blood is rather personal. Gives a clear picture, even with the interference of others. It belongs to a woman with red hair and freckles.”
“Red hair,” Dyllon exclaimed, his eyes rounded into spheres of disbelief.
Angela wasn’t sure if it was due to Micah’s parlor trick or if it was because there was a girl with red hair. She shushed him.
Micah’s impassive eyes shifted to the captain. “Not very pretty. Small. Very forthright. She is angry.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Dyllon.
“I receive images from things I touch. They come to me, much like a movie.”
Angela shot a
“Can you tell us where she is?” she pressed.
Micah turned toward the detective. “Of course not. Parts of the physical body can only give physical details. I need a personal item from the subject. But even then, I doubt I will come up with an exact location.”
“What about the casing?”
